


Follow the Leader

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Catholic Guilt, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teaching/Learning Kink, Vanilla Kink, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Alright?” Porthos always asks, soft and careful; even though he already knows the answer, feels it stoking a small thrill of anticipation low in his belly.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Yes, yes,” Aramis replies hurriedly, still not looking at Porthos; but instead with his eyes fixed on the bed, as if it's going to bite him. “I do still want to. It's just – I've never –”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow the Leader

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Bingo fill: vanilla kink.
> 
> 'Vanilla kink' is defined by the good people at [kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org) as "roleplaying normativity or pretending to be 'traditional'" - please see [this page](http://kink-wiki.dreamwidth.org/26622.html) for a more detailed explanation. I've gone with 'first time' roleplay as my particular flavour for this fic.

In the all years he’s known him, first as a brother-in-arms and later as a lover, Porthos has learned a lot about Aramis’ heart. That he’s free and generous with his affections, never seeking to possess; and that he believes his appreciation of the people he loves can be best expressed physically, which means everything from sucking d’Artagnan’s cock to congratulate him on his commission to the casual touches he can always instinctively tell when Athos needs.

(Athos is the only one of them never to have accepted Aramis’ invitations to his bed, always shrugging them off without any hint of disapproval, but with an expression which implied that Aramis didn’t understand what exactly he was offering. Aramis has still never stopped asking, though, which Porthos suspects he does more out of a sense of inclusiveness than because he ever expects Athos to accept.)

Aramis approaches sex like a gourmet does food: seeking to know all its facets, trying what seems like every permutation, coming home to Porthos with ideas that frankly often leave him feeling a bit bemused. He can’t imagine wanting to be held down by the neck and spanked, for example, doesn’t really see the purpose of it; though he is nonetheless appreciative of the way it turns Aramis into a rock-hard, whimpering mess under his hands.

Porthos loves Aramis, in a straightforward, uncomplicated way, and he wants to show his love in the ways that feel natural to him: kisses and caresses, holding him and fucking him. Once you start adding in layers upon layers of mind games or fancy implements, he finds it takes away from the enjoyment rather than adding to it.

It’s never mattered to him that they feel differently about sex; Porthos has never been the jealous type, and he’s more than happy for Aramis to have his lovers and play his games with people who appreciate them more than he does, and always come back to him again.

He’d thought of himself that way for long enough that when one of Aramis’ suggestions actually _did_ awaken something in him, the feeling was – well.

Possibly the closest thing he's ever had to a real birthday.

On these nights, the Aramis he knows – bold in his advances, kissing Porthos in the stairwell before hurrying him through the door and pulling them both to the bed – is nowhere in evidence; instead, he hesitates awkwardly on the threshold of Porthos’ bedroom, holding his hat in front of him like a shield, and radiating a nervousness that doesn’t seem to be feigned.

“Alright?” Porthos always asks, soft and careful; even though he already knows the answer, feels it stoking a small thrill of anticipation low in his belly.

“Yes, yes,” Aramis replies hurriedly, still not looking at Porthos; but instead with his eyes fixed on the bed, as if it's going to bite him. “I do still want to. It's just – I’ve never –”

He looks so lost for a moment that Porthos feels a genuine pang; and he steps in close and lifts Aramis’ chin with his hand, until he finally meets his eyes. “This your first time?” he asks, quite unnecessarily.

Aramis nods stiffly, eyes flicking away and then back, as if he’s determined to push through his nervousness; and the knowledge that he’s trusted with this rushes through Porthos’ veins, a surge of warmth and love.

“Don’t worry,” he says, broad hands framing Aramis’ face, trying to reassure with touch as well as with words. “I’ve got you.”

Aramis spreads his hands a little, laughing helplessly. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits; something defiant in his tone, as if he’s expecting mockery.

“Well, what would you do with a girl? The way I see it, it’s not much different.” Porthos takes another half-step forward, until there are just inches between them. “Where would you start?”

Aramis is looking transfixed at Porthos’ lips now, as if he’s found something holy there. “I’d start by kissing her.”

Porthos takes both of Aramis’ hands in his, placing them on his own waist where they settle hesitantly, a barely-felt pressure. “There you go, then,” he replies, easy as Aramis himself, taking his face in his hands again and leaning in to press their lips together.

He kisses Aramis as he would a shy maiden: slow and careful, allowing him to get used to a series of soft, closed-mouthed kisses before starting to lick his way inside, encouraging Aramis’ lips apart and curling their tongues together.

Porthos slides one hand around Aramis’ back, under his doublet, and presses him closer, until he feels the line of Aramis hardening against his thigh, already noticeable through his breeches. Porthos is starting to get there himself too, a combination of the tension between them and the anticipation of its release, and the low moan Aramis makes as Porthos encourages him to push his groin against him only helps.

The first few times they’d done this together he’d thought that Aramis liked playing the innocent, but it became slowly clear that it ran far deeper than that: instead it’s the opportunity to become someone else entirely, to leave aside the role of practiced lover and allow himself to be led.

And Porthos saw immediately that he _wanted_ to lead, wanted to take Aramis in hand and teach him, to be his guide; especially given it’s normally him learning from Aramis, outside their bed as well as within.

He slides a hand into Aramis’ hair and gently tugs it back until his neck is bared, kisses up from the hollow of his throat to his ear along a well-travelled line that has Aramis moaning instantly beneath his touch. “You want me to show you what two men do together, hmm?” he growls, remembering all the times Aramis has been bold and sure and poured reams of filth into his ear – Porthos’ deep voice a recurring theme, as were the surety of his fingers, the bristling of his beard against private skin.

“Please,” Aramis replies, in a voice roughening with desire; hands fisting in the leather of Porthos’ doublet, already undone.

Porthos moves his own hands to Aramis’ baldric, unbuckling every buckle before lifting the whole arrangement carefully away and setting it down on the floor. He knows Aramis’ uniform as well as his own, barely has to look at his fingers; instead he’s able to concentrate his attentions on the hitching of Aramis’ breath as he stands still and lets himself be undressed, expression nervous yet trusting.

“Alright, but first I want to see you,” Porthos murmurs as he undoes the buttons on Aramis’ doublet, leaning in to press gentle kisses along his jaw, just above the thickness of his beard. “Take my time. Has anyone seen you like this before?”

“Not… quite like this, no,” Aramis replies, his voice strained already as Porthos slides his doublet from his shoulders, draping it over the footboard of the bed before pulling the hem of Aramis’ shirt slowly, almost teasingly from his breeches, drawing the moment out. “Not to lie with me.”

“I’ll be the first, then,” Porthos says proudly; and the warmth lacing through him as he pulls Aramis’ shirt over his head and drops it on top of his discarded doublet is undeniable.

Aramis shivers as the chilly air hits his bare skin, and Porthos rubs his arms for a few moments to get his blood moving, kissing his lips. Appreciating the way Aramis is already wound tight, muscles tensed, though he’s still barely even been touched.

Porthos kisses back down the taut line of his neck, hands sweeping across his back and pulling him close again, as he mouths at the salt of Aramis’ collarbone, feeling Aramis’ hands settle lightly back on his waist, the model of decorum – though that’s not really what Porthos is going for here.

“You can touch me as well, you know,” he encourages. “I’d like you to.”

And because a small, oft-forgotten part of him does occasionally like to tease, he moves his hands to the buttons of Aramis’ breeches, trailing his fingers lightly enough along the exposed skin just above, whorls of hair giving way to smooth skin, enjoying the way Aramis’ muscles tense under his fingers, and he fights to repress a shudder.

“But I think boots and stockings off first,” Porthos instructs; and stays Aramis’ wrist as he automatically reaches down. “Let me. Lean on my shoulder. I want to undress you myself.”

He slides Aramis’ boots carefully from his feet, then his stockings, with the reverence that he saves for the luxuries of life: sweet fruit tarts, honey-glazed; cloth of gold and rich velvets; the smiles and skin of the people he takes to his bed.

Porthos has always had a weakness for fine things, and he knows of nothing finer than the sight of Aramis in the morning light, joyful smile upon his face and the blue serge cloak of the Musketeers upon his shoulder, full of the pride of his rank.

One day he’ll suck Aramis’ cock in nothing but that cloak, he thinks, because such things deserve to be appreciated in a manner commensurate with their splendour; and then wants to laugh as he realises just how much loving Aramis has already gone to his head.

But he’s careful to keep his expression gentle and attentive, because the Aramis who is with him tonight, still gripping Porthos’ shoulder hard, as if to ground himself, is fragile as only the finest things are; and Porthos will prove to both of them that these large hands understand the weight of a tentative heart, and can cradle it without bruising.

When he moves his hands back to the buttons on Aramis’ breeches, Aramis stills as abruptly as if he were carved from marble; and Porthos stops in his turn, because though they’ve lain together scores of times, he knows that tonight, Aramis believes his own part as fully as if this truly were the first time.

“May I?” Porthos asks at last, quiet and briefly still; aware that this is the moment it truly begins, and that everything they’ve done up till this point has only been a lead-in. That Aramis is either ready or he isn’t.

It seems an age before he gets his answer.

“Please,” Aramis whispers, closing his eyes as if he’s letting something go.

His breeches are snug at the waist, but once Porthos has taken both hands to the line of buttons and popped it open with practiced ease, it’s the work of a moment to push them down to the floor; and with a hand on his elbow for encouragement Aramis steps free, leaving him in just his smallclothes, the curve of his erection already clear to Porthos’ eyes, the small patch of wet fabric at its tip.

He pulls Aramis into him before he has a chance to feel adrift; finally allowing his hands to roam freely, knowing that all the world’s make-believe can’t make Aramis feel physically uncomfortable in his own skin, and that his touch on bare flesh is both fire and salve at once.

“Gorgeous,” Porthos murmurs, stroking across Aramis’ shoulder blades and down his back, relearning the contours of the muscles and the ridges of the spine, squeezing the seat of his firm arse, Aramis gasping open-mouthed. “Just lovely.”

Aramis presses back into his touch, arching his back and baring his neck in pleasure, submission embedded in every line. “Show me what to do?” he asks, voice breathy, as if desire has squeezed all the air from his lungs.

“All in good time,” Porthos smiles, with only a hint of teasing; hooking his fingers into the lacing of Aramis’ smalls – making sure to lightly brush his cock through the linen, and enjoying the strained whine that rises up in his throat – and pulling him over to the bed, sitting down heavily and shrugging his doublet from his shoulders, before he reaches out for Aramis’ hips again and pulls him forward, to stand between his own spread legs.

“Let’s get these off, so I can see all of you. You want that, don’t you.”

It’s a statement more than a question, and Porthos senses more than sees Aramis’ quick nod of assent. He’s impatient now, almost as impatient as Aramis himself normally is, and Porthos makes short work of the lacing before pushing Aramis’ smallclothes down and off to fall at his feet; and his cock comes free, fully-hard and perpendicular to his body, its weight and shape as familiar to Porthos as his own name.

His hands are back on Aramis’ hips; and he allows himself to stop and just _look_ for a moment, appreciating the answering pulse of his own desire, the watering of his mouth. “Beautiful,” he finds it in himself to say after a moment, the words coming to him slowly, as if through fog. “All of you.”

Aramis hand reaches out – and falters in mid-air, as though he’s unsure what’s permitted him; and Porthos catches it immediately and presses it to his own jaw, looking up into Aramis’ eyes with undisguised joy. “That’s it,” he encourages, “just follow your instincts. Touch me the way I touch you.”

“You’ll have to actually touch me first,” Aramis jokes, laughing a little shakily; a promise of his easy, suggestive humour, the man Porthos knows he’ll become when he teaches him to be shameless, at home in his own desire, knows with certainty because he’s already seen it so many times before.

 _Layers upon layers,_ he thinks, and perhaps he’s more at home here after all than he’d always assumed.

He shuffles back on the bed, patting his thigh. “Sit yourself down then – on my lap, facing me. That’s good. Now show me how you touch yourself.” He strokes his thumb reassuringly over the hollow of Aramis’ hip at his newly-nervous expression. “Just a few strokes, I want to know how you like it.”

Perched awkwardly over Porthos’ thighs, hands gripping the leather of his breeches, Aramis hesitates.

“You do touch yourself, right?”

“I know I shouldn’t, the Father at my seminary said it was an insult to God,” Aramis blurts out, as if he’s tried and failed to hold the words back; panic starting to form behind his eyes, as if he expects Porthos too to condemn him in turn. “But sometimes it aches so badly and I just can’t stop myself –”

Porthos stems the flow of words with a finger to Aramis’ lips, and he falls abruptly silent.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he says gently, cradling Aramis’ waist with his other hand. “The way I see it, there ain’t nothing wrong with enjoying yourself. Whether that’s with women, or men, or just for your own pleasure. Your body knows what you need as well as your heart does.”

Aramis’ eyes light up in surprised wonder; and a moment later he’s pressed his mouth to Porthos’, hard and urgent, as if he would breathe the air from his lungs. “Thank you,” he says between kisses, “thank you,” and Porthos holds him tightly and wonders whether this has become something more than play-acting. Whether Aramis really does carry this uncertainty with him, weighing on his heart and eroding its defences.

“I wanted to believe it,” he replies eventually, leaning his forehead against Porthos’, brushing their noses together. “I really did. But I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t just telling myself what I wanted to hear.”

Aramis’ hand drops down between his own legs as if he’s not even conscious of it; but just comes to rest there against his inner thigh, not quite brushing his cock, still insistently hard.

“Touch yourself for me, go on,” Porthos encourages him, wrapping his hands firmly around Aramis’ thighs, anchoring him in place.

Aramis moans as he finally grasps the base of his cock, leaning back a little and biting his lip, face raised to the heavens as if in supplication; and Porthos strokes his inner thighs with his thumbs, the beginnings of the coarse hair there, as he watches Aramis slide his foreskin up and down the shaft of his cock, liquid already beading at the tip.

“Lovely,” Porthos says, moving a hand up to cup his balls, just as he knows Aramis likes; enjoying the groan that breaks its way up from Aramis’ throat at the feeling of Porthos’ hand on him for the first time. “Just beautiful,” he croons, squeezing just the right amount. “I could watch you do this all day, if I didn’t have other plans.”

As he lets go of Aramis entirely to pull a small bottle of oil from the pocket of his breeches, and pour the liquid into his hand, he notices that Aramis’ eyes have suddenly gone very wide. There’s a tension in his face that wasn’t there before, his hand stilling suddenly on his cock.

A drop of fluid starts to drip slowly from the tip there, stretching out into a glistening string; and unable to resist, Porthos leans over and laps it up, just the barest of caresses with the tip of his tongue still enough to make Aramis jerk with want. “Please…”

“Please what?” Porthos grins.

“I don’t know – something,” Aramis replies, a little impatiently, other hand clenching and unclenching in the leather of Porthos’ breeches. “Just – show me, please!”

His mask is starting to slip, his hesitance becoming less as his want becomes more and more; and Porthos loves this just as much, loves letting the desire build in him until he forgets himself entirely, and then finally giving him what he wants.

“Hands off your cock, then,” he replies, “and let me touch you.”

As Porthos’ slicked-up hand finally wraps around him Aramis whimpers, leaning forward to put his arms around Porthos’ neck and kissing him furiously as he’s touched, with none of his usual finesse.

Porthos knows Aramis’ body almost as well as his own, and he can feel in the tightness of his balls and the tensing of his thighs when Aramis is starting to get close; and he moves his hand from Aramis’ cock to caress his balls again, ignoring the wordless noise of protest against his lips, and then further, touching back between his legs.

Aramis’ entire body tenses as Porthos’ slick finger presses against his entrance.

“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning back to look at him – confused, with just an edge of fear.

“Well, where did you think it goes?” Porthos answers his question with another, stroking his other hand along Aramis’ jaw. “Unless you’ve got a pretty cunt hidden between those legs as well.”

Aramis bites his lip, looking away. “I’m sorry. It’s just –”

“Hey.” Porthos hooks a finger under his chin, turns it back until Aramis is looking him in the eye again. “No apologising for what you don’t know. It’s all good.” He kisses him lightly, pressing briefly with his finger before dropping his hand, enjoying Aramis’ sharp intake of breath. “I can teach you how to take my cock, would you like that?”

“I didn’t know such a thing was possible,” Aramis confesses, with an awkward smile. “But – won’t it hurt?”

“Not with me,” Porthos replies confidently. “It can hurt if you don’t do it right, but I know how to make it good. But I’m still wearing too much clothing, why don’t you help me with that first?”

“Alright,” Aramis breathes; and the way he clambers to his feet before almost tearing the clothes from Porthos’ frame is so unlike his normal careless skill, messy and desperate – and once or twice Porthos has to say, “Easy,” and still Aramis’ hand in his before he rips a button off in his nerves.

“There’s no rush now,” he reassures, “I’m not going anywhere;” and when Aramis hesitates at the laces of his smallclothes, it only takes the very gentle pressure of Porthos’ hands over his to encourage him onwards, fumbling a little at the laces before pulling them loose, and pushing the linen reverently down Porthos’ hips.

Aramis looks at Porthos’ cock like he’s never seen one before; like it’s fascinating, eyes wide and hands gripping Porthos’ hips hard enough to bruise. His scrutiny is intense enough to make Porthos feel a little uncomfortable, and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“You’ve seen another man’s cock before, right?”

“Well, yes, but not –” Aramis stalls for a moment, smiling sheepishly. “Not _quite_ in this state. It’s –” he swallows nervously – “I’m not quite sure it’ll fit.”

“I’ll stretch you open with my fingers first,” Porthos reassures, “nice and easy. Lie back for me.” He pushes Aramis gently down onto the bed by his shoulders, and watches him shift back into the centre of the mattress, lying down on his back and planting his feet flat on the bed. “Spread your legs a little, there, that’s it. When I’m done I’ll be able to just slide right inside you.”

Aramis still tenses at the first press of Porthos’ freshly-oiled fingers over his entrance, as Porthos had well known he would; and so he curls them around into his palm, rolling his knuckles back and forth along the sensitive skin there. He shifts around and reaches up through Aramis’ legs to clasp his hand, massaging patiently until he feels Aramis relax under the touch that’s familiar to his body at least.

As soon as the tension drains from the grip on his hand, Porthos eases the first finger inside; stroking over Aramis’ side, down to his thigh as he tenses again. “You can take it for me, darling,” he croons. “Have you ready in no time.”

“It’s so… _strange_ ,” Aramis gasps, something like awe in his voice, unable to stop himself clenching around Porthos’ finger as he pushes it fully inside.

“That it is,” Porthos agrees. “Bet you’ve never felt anything like it, have you?” He smiles at Aramis’ dazed shake of the head. “It’s a well-kept secret, that’s for sure. Lucky you found yourself the right teacher.”

He crooks his finger to rub over the spot that he knows will have Aramis sparking beneath him; and a sharp “Ah!” falls from Aramis’ lips, beautiful in his shock and his pleasure.

“What was _that_?”

“ _That’s_ the reason men do this together,” Porthos replies, unable to help his triumphant grin as he pushes in the tip of a second finger alongside the first.

Porthos would always be the first to protest that he isn’t a vain man, though he appreciates life’s little luxuries for what they are, and all the more so because he could easily do without. But privately, he may be forced to concede that there’s something of vanity in loving the way Aramis looks at him in these moments, all wide-blown wonder and something a little like worship, as if Porthos is just as dear to him as God.

As he stretches, scissors with his fingers, the first ragged “Please!” tumbles from Aramis’ mouth; and Porthos knows from experience and instinct that Aramis is almost, _almost_ there, teetering on the edge of that place where he’ll lose the role he’s playing to the force of his own desire, that place where he is both lost and found.

“Alright darling, you’re ready,” Porthos informs him; knowing Aramis would agree, were he thinking of it. He certainly _looks_ ready, eyes heavy-lidded and looking down his body in wordless pleading, cock full and leaking against his belly; and Porthos dips the first finger of his other hand into the puddle of clear fluid there, brushing ever so lightly against the tip, all to watch Aramis groan and shudder beneath him.

“Legs up,” he instructs, “and I’ll just get myself ready.”

Porthos kneels over him as he oils up his cock, because he knows Aramis likes to watch; it feels as though he’s been hard for hours already, and he can feel himself straining at the edges of his role, half-wanting to push inside Aramis’ body in one swift thrust and fuck him as unrelentingly as he knows Aramis can take. But still he makes himself hold back, and leans forward over Aramis’ coiled body to kiss his lips before asking, “You ready for me?”

“Yes. Please. I want –” Aramis pulls up short, remembering himself just in time, “I want you to show me.”

Porthos pushes into him as slowly as he can bear to, bracing himself either side of Aramis’ shoulders, close enough to almost count as an embrace; and he makes himself still once he’s fully sheathed, lifts a hand to Aramis’ cheek and asks, “How’s that, then?”

“It’s fine. _Please,_ ” Aramis insists, and Porthos struggles not to grin. He thought he’d get in a few slow and lingering thrusts at least before Aramis forgot the roles they’re playing, forgot anything other than his own need and desire and how much he wanted Porthos to fuck into him, hard and unrelenting; but this is good too, this is Porthos being able to wind him up and break him down to the point where he is purely himself, no space for anything but his own want and love, for the connection of their bodies.

“Alright then, _boy_ ,” he growls, as close to Aramis’ ear as he can get, enjoying the way the body beneath him tenses with a sudden spike of arousal, “you want me to give it to you properly? ‘Cause I will.”

“Do it, come on,” Aramis urges, his hesitance entirely forgotten, grasping at Porthos’ shoulders as if he can pull him even further inside. “Fuck me!”

And Porthos doesn’t need telling again, at last following the cues of his body and thrusting hard and fast, a merciless rhythm, knowing that Aramis can take it. He leans back up on his hands in search of a deeper angle, allowing him to take in the sight of Aramis’ face screwed up in pleasure, his body buffeted back and forth on the mattress by the force of Porthos’ movements, his fingers digging into Porthos’ hips to feel his rhythm, to move with it.

“You were made for this, weren’t you? So eager already on your _first time_.” Porthos is teasing now, his own arousal making him sharp, and no longer careful; and Aramis barely seems to hear or understand him, blinking stupidly up as if he’s forgotten his own game entirely.

“More – please – don’t stop –” he gasps, as if Porthos has any intention of stopping, the steady thrusts seemingly enough to push all of the air from his lungs.

“I won’t,” Porthos manages, angling himself just that little more to brush firmly over that bright spot inside Aramis with every thrust. “You’ll get – well and – truly – fucked –”

Aramis already is, Porthos thinks dizzily; he’s lost in want, groaning with every push of Porthos’ cock over that special place inside of him, gasping _fuck, please, please_. Porthos doesn’t know if he’s asking to come or asking to be kept here, suspended on the near-unbearable edge of his need – but he knows Aramis can take it and more besides, has seen him beg till he’s hoarse, even cry with desperate arousal; and so he just keeps on thrusting, enjoying the sight of Aramis below him, his hot tight heat, chasing the rise and rise of his own orgasm until it overwhelms him, sending him spilling into Aramis with a harsh groan.

He makes himself keep moving through the aftershocks, the pressure of Aramis’ body around him suddenly greater, almost too much; and Aramis must have felt Porthos coming inside him, because his eyes have snapped back open and he’s gripping Porthos’ hipbones hard enough to bruise. “Please – I need to –”

“Touch yourself,” Porthos commands, “pull yourself off for me,” and Aramis’ right hand is on his cock in moments, his groan almost pained; and it’s only a couple of strokes until he stiffens and shouts and clenches round Porthos’ cock, and Porthos can’t decide whether to watch Aramis’ face or his cock as he comes, can’t decide which is more beautiful, his eyes travelling up and down Aramis’ body trying to take in everything at once.

Porthos pulls out of him while Aramis is still coming down, sending a fresh round of moans bubbling up out of him; and once he’s come back to bed with a damp cloth to wipe them both clean, Aramis’ eyes have lost that hazy, unfocused look at last, although he hasn’t bothered to move a muscle.

“God, that was good,” he comments, stretching his arms out above his head as Porthos wipes Aramis’ seed from his belly, his own seed from between his legs. “Thank you.”

“It was no hardship,” Porthos replies easily, wondering for a moment if Aramis means the roleplay or the sex, before deciding the answer’s the same in any case.

It’s only once the candle’s out and they’re both under the blankets readying themselves for sleep, Aramis pressed up against Porthos’ side, that Aramis lifts his head from Porthos’ chest and says consideringly, “You know, I don’t do this with anyone else.”

“Is that right.” The roleplay, then, though it’s no struggle to keep his voice casual; he has no more claim on Aramis than he does on anyone else, and he’s truly never minded what he does when they’re apart.

“I like to keep it just for us,” Aramis explains after a brief moment of silence, as Porthos knew he would. “I’m glad we’ve found at least one game you like – for your own sake, not just for mine.”

Porthos is only half way to a reply when Aramis continues: “Tell me what you like about it?”

At its heart, it’s simple really.

“I like being able to look after you,” he replies, hand coming up instinctively to smooth over Aramis’ ever-unruly hair. “Having something to show you, for once, even though you know it already really.”

“Porthos, my great protector,” Aramis teases, pressing his own hand over Porthos’ heart – but there’s real warmth in his tone. “And for my part, I suppose I just want to give you something special. That I don’t give to anyone else.”

He means the game, Porthos assumes, and not any notion of him being pure and unspoiled; but it’s rubbish, just the same.

“You already do,” he insists. “You and me – that’s special already. I’m not the same with anyone else as I am with you, and I’d bet you’re not neither.”

It never fails to surprise him that Aramis, who seems to understand intimacy so instinctually, can fail to see something so obvious.

“No, that’s true,” Aramis concedes, hand toying with Porthos’ chest hair; and Porthos can feel the moment he decides it’s time to lighten the mood. “Nobody else fucks me into the mattress quite like you do.”

Porthos can’t help laughing, because it’s probably true; and Aramis has just about settled down against him again when another thought pops into his head.

“All that stuff about your priest though,” he says, even though he should probably just let Aramis sleep, because the alternative is letting it stew and he’s never liked doing that. “I’ve never heard any of that before. You don’t really worry that we’ll be damned for this, do you?”

While he’s never really cared about God for His own sake, he cares about Aramis, and if that means caring about God too then so be it.

“Not for this,” Aramis replies, “ _never_ for this,” and Porthos can hear the fierceness in his voice, and feels a lightness rising in his own chest.

“If – if it were just me, I could believe myself to be wrong to love more than one person, wrong about everything I hold dear,” Aramis confesses, his hand gripping tight to Porthos’ arm. “But when I look at you – I have faith. And then I know in my heart that living life as a good, kind person is worth more than going to Mass every Sunday or whether or not we touch ourselves, or each other. _You_ give me faith.”

“Dramatic,” Porthos teases, but he hopes Aramis can hear the smile in his voice.

“But entirely sincere,” Aramis insists, shifting up and pressing an oddly sweet kiss to Porthos’ cheek. “I don’t want you to ever think you haven’t taught me anything.”

“I won’t. Now go to sleep,” Porthos replies, patting Aramis on the head and encouraging it back down to his chest again; but he’s grinning, almost wide enough to hurt.

Leader or follower, whatever games they play, they balance each other out; and that’s more than enough for him.


End file.
